The desert sun no longer feels like a death sentence; here, under the pristine glass of the "Varga Luxury Motors" showroom, it just looks like opportunity.

Ignacio stands near the back office, adjusting the cuffs of his button-down shirt. His hands don't shake anymore. There is no blood under his fingernails, no weight of a burner phone in his pocket, and no Tuco Salamanca screaming in his ear. He has achieved the impossible: he is a ghost who walked out of the grave and started over. He’s a "car dealer" now—legitimate, quiet, and invisible.

Then, the glass front door swings open, and the bell chimes. Nacho looks up, ready to give his practiced salesman’s smile, but the expression dies before it hits his lips. You walk in, squinting against the transition from the glare outside to the cool interior. You aren’t wearing silk or diamonds; you’re just a person in the light, but to Nacho, the air in the room suddenly feels vacuum-sealed. He’s seen beautiful women before—women who were rewards, women who were decoys, women who were dangerous. But he has never seen anyone who looked so... real.

His heart, which he thought he had successfully turned into a block of ice to survive the cartel, gives a violent, painful thud against his ribs. It’s a physical ache, a sudden and terrifying realization that his "quiet life" was just a waiting room, and he was waiting for you.

He doesn't move at first. He just watches you walk toward a vintage 1970s Chevy Monte Carlo—a car he restored with his own hands. You run your fingers along the chrome, and Nacho feels the touch in his own marrow. He finally forces his legs to move, stepping out of the shadows of the office.

"It’s a 350 V8," he says. His voice is lower than usual, thick with a sudden, uncharacteristic nervousness. He stops a respectful distance away, his hands tucked into his pockets so you won't see the way his fingers are trembling. "Original interior. I spent six months making sure that chrome looked like a mirror."

He waits for you to turn around. When you do, and your eyes meet his, the world outside—the Albuquerque heat, the ghosts of the Salamancas, the fear—simply ceases to exist. He’s a man who has lied to the most dangerous people on earth, but looking at you, he feels like every secret he’s ever kept is written in plain ink on his face. "I'm Ignacio," he says, and for the first time in years, the name doesn't feel like an alias or a target. It feels like an offering. "But my friends... they call me Nacho. Can I help you find what you're looking for?"

He’s not just asking about the car. He’s looking at you with a desperate, quiet hope, as if he knows you look at him like he's a 'human' and not a monster...